


Wonderland

by andchaos



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Emotional Porn, Explicit Sexual Content, Grinding, M/M, club scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 21:26:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3544373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andchaos/pseuds/andchaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>what happened after that club kiss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wonderland

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to know what happened after the club kiss, and also there’s a suspicious lack of grinding fics in this fandom. So here we are. Also, I wrote about half of this in the car ride home from college, so if anything’s off you can blame it on my parents being in the front seat.  
> Title doubles as a Taylor Swift song (what else is new?).  
> Uhm, and I guess there's an inherent implication of bipolar disorder throughout as Ian was in a manic phase when this happened.  
> \---  
> \--  
> -

          The club was hot and sweaty and packed, and Ian thought he had never been able to breathe better.

          Ian deliberately didn’t look over the crowd, but he could feel Mickey’s eyes on his back anyway, gaze glued to him as he undulated on the stage. He didn’t turn to check, didn’t want to be proved wrong. Mickey knew how to look at him, knew how to track his every breath when they were alone, but watching him in public was something entirely new. Mickey, at the Milkoviches’, gaze sweeping over him and Mandy on the couch; Mickey in the school hallways, staring straight ahead even when Ian walked beside him; Mickey at his wedding, eyes flat and dead and locked on Svetlana, leaving Ian to fade into background noise while he poured himself straight vodka at the bar; Mickey at the Gallaghers’ two days ago, staring at the floor with his arms crossed until Ian’s siblings left the room. Ian was tired of Mickey hiding, as though people would take one look at Mickey watching him and _know_. Maybe it meant Mickey couldn’t hide anything really, couldn’t keep the want and desperation from his expression when he looked at Ian. But Ian didn’t care what Mickey meant by it when all it ever did was make him feel invisible. He got enough of that everywhere he went—the quiet one, the dirty little secret. The only person he ever cared about acknowledging him was Mickey. And with Mickey, surrounded by other people, he might as well have not existed at all.

          But he certainly existed now, wearing nothing but gold shorts and too much eyeliner, rolling his hips up on the stage. Ian didn’t want to know if Mickey was actually watching him— _he must be,_ he told himself, _wouldn’t have come all the way to Boystown to look at anybody else_ —because even if he wasn’t, everyone else certainly was. Skinny but muscled and feeling finally in control, Ian knew what he looked like when he danced at the club. He knew that people’s eyes snagged on him and that they were instantly hooked, never leaving him for a second. He wasn’t a dirty secret, not on that stage. Here, he was a god.

          During one particularly passionate body roll, Ian turned his head to the side and noticed someone watching him, someone besides the boy he knew was sitting behind him. On well-worn instinct he turned to the man—he was larger than Ian’s usual lays, and not as old as the guys Ian usually went home with, but he knew he would be leaving with Mickey tonight so it didn’t matter anyway—and raised his arms above his head, snapping his hips towards the guy in a silent invitation to come closer. He did; Ian hadn’t misread his interest or his intent, and the man pushed himself to his feet almost immediately. He seemed kind of drunk, but he sauntered over anyway, reaching into his pocket for some money. Ian kept his eyes on him the entire time, keeping his hips rolling as the guy’s hand reached for him. Ian turned away and prepared himself for the old feeling of bills sliding against him before his waistband snapped back against his skin, but it never came.

          Ian looked down again, but the guy was gone. He located him after barely a seconds’ search, though, and then his lips were quirking up.

          Mickey was there, twisting the man’s wrist in his strong hands, and shouting something at him. Ian couldn’t really hear it over the music, but he thought he might have heard some kind of threat surrounding Ian’s cock. Despite everything, something warm flushed in his chest: Mickey was making a very public declaration, in the middle of a dark and rumbling club.

          Ian was _his_.

          Ian grinned as the man scampered away and he hopped down off the pedestal, leaning over Mickey with that stupid smile still plastered on his face, even as Mickey’s gaze flickered over Ian’s visage and away, scanning the rest of the room. Maybe to see if security was coming, maybe to know if he had to threaten any more creeps. Maybe because Ian was too close, and Mickey couldn’t look at him after what he’d said.

          But Ian was smiling. Mickey had been watching him. Mickey had just declared Ian his own.

          “I got invited to an after hours at the loft of one of my regulars,” Ian said, because he felt high and his skin was buzzing and he wanted to take Mickey more public places and have everyone know what was what.

          Mickey just nodded distractedly, pushing his tongue into his cheek the way he did when he was nervous and overwhelmed. He looked out over the sea of people again. Ian spoke up again, wanting to draw his attention back.

          “It’s fun,” he said, throwing his arms out in a half-shrug. “What’s wrong with fun?”

          Mickey finally looked back at him. He still looked like he wanted to sink into the floor, but he was looking at him. And Ian wanted that, wanted his attention, even if he was looking at him like he was crazy.

          “Nothing,” Mickey said, low and harsh, “unless it involves some fat faggot shoving his hand down your—”

          Ian thought Mickey was cute, even when he was spitting out slurs, because he was still being possessive, of Ian, _to_ Ian. So he didn’t really think about it when he leaned in, because he wanted to claim Mickey too, he wanted to be possessive right back.

          He wasn’t entirely surprised when Mickey jerked away from him, muttering, “The fuck?” but he knew that he wanted this, and that Mickey wanted this too if the way he’d been talking all night was any indication. So Ian just leaned back into his own space, mouth quirked in a smirk, his eyebrow raised like a challenge. Mickey never could resist a challenge.

          Mickey followed his glance around the room, Ian’s silent will for him to understand that this was okay, that nobody cared. They were in public, surrounded by people, but Mickey could still be his.

          And Mickey looked back at him finally, studying his face, his eyes, then dropping down to his lips.

          And of course Ian was there. Ian was always there, ready to meet him halfway. They crashed together, Mickey’s mouth demanding but slow against his, his hands sliding into Ian’s hair before one of them dropped down to his waist, pulling him in closer. Ian clutched at him, one hand pressed against the back of his head, keeping him anchored there, the other grasping at the small of his back through his shirt. He felt too hot, even though he wasn’t the one wearing clothes, and he wanted Mickey against him bare, chest to chest, Mickey’s hands on his skin, his mouth everywhere.

          Mickey’s hand dropped down to caress his cheek, his thumb on Ian’s chin, pulling his mouth open just that little bit more that he could slip his tongue in beside Ian’s. Ian slid his hands down to grab tightly at Mickey’s hips, pulling him closer, and when the denim of Mickey’s jeans brushed against the cheap, flimsy fabric of Ian’s shorts, Mickey groaned.

          Ian pulled away from his lips, pressing his face into his neck instead, grinning against his skin as he tugged Mickey’s hips into his again and again, eliciting more moans as their clothed cocks ground together, hard. Mickey grabbed at his face, bringing his lips back down to his, and only when he let out a coarse but plaintive, “ _Ian_ ,” did Ian step back.

          Mickey looked after him, chest heaving, skin flushed. Ian raked his eyes over Mickey, whose face was hot with mingled embarrassment and need, and Ian realized that he could probably do just about anything.

          Mickey’s fists were clenching and unclenching at his sides, and when he finally gave in and reached out again for Ian, Ian let him pull him closer, but he didn’t meet Mickey’s mouth when he leaned up for it. Mickey didn’t pause, latching onto his neck instead, his teeth scraping against Ian’s throat where he was sucking roughly at his skin. Ian rolled against Mickey one more time, a hand sliding down to grasp at his ass and soften the blow when he said breathlessly, “Dance with me.”

          Mickey pulled away, meeting Ian’s steady gaze but looking unfocused and confused. They just looked at each other for a few seconds, but Ian wasn’t going to give ground. Not this time. Mickey was looking at him and his skin was flushed and his mouth was red from where it had been pressed against Ian’s and Ian wasn’t going to back down. Even if it meant Mickey was going to leave.

          He didn’t. Mickey seemed to come slowly back to himself as they stood facing each other, and when he dragged a hand over his face and into his hair, he muttered, “Fuck,” and quickly turned around, pressing himself back against Ian in the same swift motion.

          Ian grinned again and wrapped his hands around Mickey’s hips, and because Mickey wasn’t really moving and didn’t seem inclined to, Ian started rocking them gently to the beat of the blasting music. As Mickey’s embarrassment declined, he started moving back against Ian with more purpose, pressing his ass hungrily back into Ian’s cock while Ian was left to make sure they were sort of keeping rhythm with the bass. And Mickey was into it, reaching back to grip tightly at one of Ian’s thighs, trying to press as close as possible, like he wanted to sink right into him.

          Ian leaned forward and nosed at Mickey’s neck, breathing him in. Mickey let out a low sound, which Ian felt only in the vibrations of his throat, and reached around to thread his fingers back through Ian’s hair. Ian thrust against him harder, and Mickey pressed back, and when he turned his head, panting heavily, Ian leaned forward and recaptured his mouth.

          Ian tugged gently at Mickey’s waist, wanting more of him, wanting to be _in_ him, to see Mickey’s hooded eyes watching even as Ian made him fall apart. Mickey must have felt Ian’s cock swelling against his ass because he only starting rocking his hips back with more intent, more precision, dragging against Ian in all the ways he knew made him crazy. Ian pulled away from his mouth to bite and suck at his neck, and Mickey’s head dropped back to his opposite shoulder with a low groan, still grinding against him to the music.

          They had rules, they always had. No kissing. No marking. No more touching than absolutely necessary.

          Ian hated those rules, and it was with a certain amount of satisfaction that he scraped his teeth over the fresh bruise on Mickey’s neck, drawing out a guttural noise as one hand creeped slowly along Mickey’s waist and down over the front of his jeans.

          Ian let out a low, dark laugh as he cupped Mickey’s cock through his jeans and felt that he was just as hard as Ian was. He licked a line across Mickey’s throat, tasting sweat, tasting _Mickey_ , and started slowly working his hand over the hard line of Mickey’s cock. His mouth stilled, choosing a spot and suckling at his skin again.

          From what he could see of his face, Mickey’s mouth had fallen open. He was panting again, but he nevertheless bit out, _“Gallagher_.”

          A flare of irritation lit up in Ian’s chest. In the middle of a club, Ian hard against his ass, pressed so closely together that even Ian was beginning to lose track of what was whose through the thick haze Mickey always made his head, and Mickey had the audacity to drop him back down to _Gallagher_. Like he was still fifteen and some random kid who hung out with his sister.

          Ian’s hand stilled, and he brought his lips close to Mickey’s ear so that he knew he would be heard perfectly clearly.

          “Yes?” he said, voice threateningly sweet. With the one hand he still had on Mickey’s hips, he jerked Mickey back, harder than before, his cock dragging long and slow against him.

          Mickey seemed to be struggling to say something; Ian waited patiently, one hand still over Mickey’s cock but refusing to move, his mouth so close to him without doing anything, his breath just ghosting over Mickey’s skin. Evidently Mickey decided that whatever weak protest he had mounted had nothing on Ian all over him, because instead of saying anything, he twisted around in Ian’s grip and slammed his mouth back against his, desperately, hard.

          Ian met him willingly, wasting no time in sliding his tongue against Mickey’s, his hands settling over his ass to better maneuver him where he wanted. He grinded his hips against Mickey’s, forgetting the beat entirely as they rocked together. Ian bit down on Mickey’s bottom lip and then swept his tongue over the wound, and Mickey growled out something unintelligible and scrabbled his fingernails over Ian’s bare back as he tried to find something tangible to grab onto, before giving up and slipping his hands under the only clothing Ian still had on.

          “Mick,” Ian rasped from where his mouth was pressed to his jaw, nipping at the skin over the bone. Mickey gave a grunt of acknowledgement and squeezed down on his ass.

          Ian pulled away, shaking his head slightly to get it back in order. He wanted something…

          “Mickey,” he said again, more determined this time despite the way Mickey was still dancing on him, clouding his thoughts, muddling his head up.

          Mickey lifted his head from where it was pressed in the hollow of Ian’s shoulder, pressing kisses to his collarbone between the ragged breaths he was huffing against his skin. His eyes looked glazed over and lost when he met Ian’s own, but he grabbed at Ian’s forearms like he was steadying himself and managed a strangled, “What?”

          “I think I should…I should take my break soon,” Ian said as Mickey returned to his attack on his neck.

          “Mm?” Mickey’s indifferent hum was lost, muffled against Ian. He bit down on the junction of his shoulder.

          “Yeah,” Ian gasped.

          Mickey pulled back, his eyebrow arching up high on his forehead. He looked somehow both riled up and fucked out, his hair a mess from Ian running his hands through it, but he had maintained that same fucking _haughtiness_ he always had, that arrogance and defiance that made Ian want to throw him down and maybe get a few good punches in before he fucked him.

          And Mickey was still on him, against him, rolling his hips and groping at him, and Ian could only dig in his nails into Mickey’s forearms and level him a look back that was just as fierce.

          “Yeah,” he said again, decisively, and slid his hand down Mickey’s arm to grab at his wrist. He turned without further comment and led Mickey away through the dance floor, and Mickey didn’t say anything, didn’t make a comment of accord or objection. But Ian could feel his eyes on him, roaming over his back and his ass and where he had Mickey’s wrist in a firm grip, and he felt the strangest sense of power amidst the peace that had settled over his mind. He felt steady, clear-headed for the first time in what felt like forever despite the fog being with Mickey always left him in. Cloudy, but sure.

          Ian led them to one of the rooms usually reserved for private dances, guarded by one of the bouncers that he was more acquainted with. Technically, the rules of the club dictated that nobody was supposed to touch or really do anything more than _look_ in these back rooms, but Ian tightened his grip on Mickey and slid the bouncer a twenty, a silent indication to ignore any noise he might hear from this room while they were inside. Mickey didn’t comment on the exchange, for which Ian was privately thankful; he didn’t need Mickey to ask how many times he had used this same method to be alone with someone else. Ian didn’t even want to think about anyone but Mickey, worried that if he did, the heaviness that had pervaded his thoughts for the past few months would return in full force.

          He released Mickey to lock the door, and then he was on him—Mickey hadn’t even had a chance to really look around before Ian was at his hips, shoving him down on the couch in the middle of the room. He climbed on to his lap, and it was so like the dance he had given when Mickey had first found him again, but then he shoved him over so that he was laying down, and it wasn’t like that anymore, and Ian was straddling his waist and Mickey was pawing at his shoulders trying to bring him back down to him, and Ian went with it, meeting him for another bruising kiss. He couldn’t remember for how long they had kissed tonight; it felt like an hour, two, maybe more—but it still wasn’t enough to make up for all the time they hadn’t been doing this, nor all the time apart.

          Ian pushed Mickey’s shirt up and over his head, not bothering to undo it right, and then kissed him again, and again, and reveled in it, that this was allowed right now—and Mickey was still clawing at him, for him, like this wasn’t enough, like he wanted Ian closer. Like he’d missed him.

          “ _Ian_ ,” Mickey gritted out, and Ian realized he had been sitting up staring at him for too long. He bent back down, licking idly at one of his nipples while most of his attention focused on where his hands were undoing Mickey’s zipper. He scooted back to pull his jeans off, but when Mickey made to turn over, Ian stilled him with a hand on his thigh.

          Mickey looked up at him, and Ian shook his head minutely. “Face me,” he breathed.

          For the first time that night, he didn’t expect Mickey to say no, and he didn’t disappoint. Mickey wrapped his legs around Ian’s waist, pulling him forward. Ian had to hide his smile against Mickey’s chest where he was busying his mouth while the hand not bracing beside Mickey’s head found its way into Mickey’s boxers. Mickey was working on toeing down Ian’s shorts, but stopped with a broken gasp when Ian managed to get his hands under him, long fingers swiping over Mickey’s dry hole.

          “Come on,” Mickey said when Ian didn’t do it again, didn’t really move, just kept flicking his tongue over Mickey’s nipple and occasionally dragging his teeth over the nub.

          “Come on what?” Ian asked, pulling back and smirking.

          “Come _on_ ,” Mickey repeated, managing to maneuver Ian’s shorts down to his knees and digging his heels into Ian’s ass. “I need…” He pulled in a strangled breath. “I need…this.”

          It wasn’t really a declaration of love, or want, or anything really, but Ian heard the underlying intent. He sat back again, in between Mickey’s spread legs, knees propped up around Ian like a cage. He dragged Mickey’s boxers the rest of the way down and then off, tossed somewhere behind the couch. Mickey kept his hands on Ian’s thighs the whole time, nails digging in when Ian went to pull away.

          “We need—” Ian started, but the end of his sentence was drowned out by Mickey pulling him back down so that he could lick into his mouth again, and Ian’s train of thought was momentarily derailed.

          Mickey was everywhere: around him, beneath him, his hands even on Ian’s back and pulling him down. Only when Mickey bucked up against him, Ian’s cock dragging over his ass, did they both remember what they had really come in here for.

          Mickey was still clutching at him and rubbing up against him at the same time, repeating the slow drag over and over while Ian tried to find it in him to put up a fight.

          “Get the fuck in me, Ian,” Mickey growled out near his ear.

          “We don’t have condoms—or lube—” Ian stuttered out, but then Mickey rolled up against him again, and the protest ended in a moan.

          “Just spit or something,” Mickey muttered, his teeth snagging on the shell of Ian’s ear as he rasped it out, “and then fuck me.”

          Ian didn’t hesitate, even though somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he should have. He leaned back just enough to roughly force his index finger into Mickey’s mouth, and Mickey immediately sucked at it, around it, and keened when Ian pushed in two more. Ian kept grinding down on him as he got them wet, and Mickey was the one to pull back, Ian’s fingers slipping out of his mouth. He didn’t say anything, just nodded tersely, and Ian jerked his hips away so that he could press a newly-slicked finger into Mickey.

          It was rough, and probably hurt, but Mickey was looking up at him like it didn’t matter, like he needed more, so Ian pressed in a second finger, and a third, stretching him without finesse. He wanted to say something, apologize for the burn, but Mickey grabbed the back of his neck just as he started to speak and pressed a sloppy kiss to his mouth, breathing hard more than anything else, breathing him in.

          “C’mon,” Mickey panted against his lips, pressing down on his fingers like he wanted more, _needed_ more. Needed Ian. “Come on, Ian, I’m fine. Do it.”

          Ian paused in his ministrations, looking down at Mickey, searching his face. But Mickey seemed sincere, his eyes wide, his mouth half-open even as he tugged in a corner to chew on. So Ian pulled his fingers out, smoothing them almost affectionately through Mickey’s hair before repositioning himself over him. He spit into his palm, slicking himself up, and in seconds he was pushing into him—slow, so slow. He didn’t know if that would exacerbate or reduce the pain, but Mickey was still just looking up at him, breathing hard, but just _watching_ him so steadily. Steadier than Ian had felt in months, and like Ian was something he had never seen before, something tremendous and great and wonderful, and Ian at least knew how that felt. Felt it every time he touched him, pushed inside of him, so much as looked at him.

          Both of their breathing was erratic even before Ian bottomed out, but when he finally did, he froze, trying to assess if Mickey was okay. Mickey looked uncomfortable at first, his expression twinging, but he settled after a moment and nodded, so Ian started to rock into him, slowly at first and then picking up speed.

          This was ridiculous. Stupid. Fucking Mickey without protection, and facing him, and so _slow_ , eyes locked the whole time. But Mickey was staring back up at him, and not the way everyone else did nowadays. Not like he was wondering how he could use him, what he could become for him. Mickey was looking up at Ian like he saw dawn in the way they were locked together, like Ian thrusting slowly but solidly into him made everything they had been through worth it.

          And suddenly, after spending so much time wanting Mickey to look at him, really look, and _see_ him for once, Ian couldn’t stare back. He buried his face into Mickey’s shoulder, hips never losing their rhythm. Mickey didn’t say anything, though he could surely feel Ian’s lip trembling; he ran one hand through Ian’s hair, the other wrapped around his back, and shoved back against him, fucking himself as much as Ian was fucking him. Ian ran his hands down Mickey’s shoulders and chest and the side of his face, and kept his own face hidden, and thrust into him. Eventually his hands drifted down to hitch Mickey’s legs higher up on his waist, and Mickey was gasping by his hairline, and Ian couldn’t look but everything _felt_ just right.

          “Come on, come on.”

          He didn’t realize he was muttering until Mickey was whispering back, quiet, “I am, I am,” and it was nonsense, really, but Ian couldn’t stop saying it. When Mickey aligned his face even closer to the side of Ian’s, mumbling, “I’m gonna come, Ian, I’m gonna—” Ian only picked up speed, driving into him harder, and when Mickey came a few minutes later with a muffled yell, Ian fell over the edge with him, sighing his name.

          They fell together afterward, onto the couch with Ian splayed above him, supporting most of his own weight and drawing lazy patterns across Mickey’s chest. He knew he should get up, clean up, but the most he could do was pull out to afford Mickey some small comfort, and continue laying over him.

          Mickey spoke first, jabbing Ian lightly in the side to gain his attention.

          “Your shift’s over soon,” he said, his soft voice loud in the silent room. “You should…you should get back out there, finish up. Make sure we get to that loft party on time.”

          Ian shifted off of him slightly, looking down at him. He couldn’t help the smile stretching over his face. “You’re coming?”

          Mickey cleared his throat and looked away. He punched Ian gently on the arm and said, “’Course I’m coming, man. Now come on, where’d you throw your hot pants?”

          Ian huffed a laugh and clamored off of him, helping him to his feet. They gathered their clothes in silence, Ian occasionally sneaking glances over at Mickey, but Mickey wasn’t looking back. Ian might have tensed, wondering if he had just destroyed even this, and now Mickey couldn’t even look at him in private.

          But then Mickey grabbed his hand and led the way back outside, out into the packed, stifling atmosphere of the club. And Ian tipped the bouncer a wink, and got back on the stage, and finished out his shift despite wanting nothing more than to go back to Mickey and kiss him again, kiss him until they had to go home and weren’t allowed to kiss anymore.

          Ian didn’t look over often, but he could feel it on his back—Mickey’s eyes didn’t leave him the entire rest of the night.

**Author's Note:**

> yo come talk on tumblr: fuku-up.tumblr.com :))


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